Our Lives as Genitalia: A novel with an intense beating erotic main theme.It is subtitled: Signatures from between our legs, aroused by sex, penetrated by memory, yet screwed by the mind to always confront life in the present.
The narrative begins as a series of erotic driven encounters but they all ripple back through later relationships in time, place and memory. It seems in the coupling moment that pleasure ignited by pleasures ignition remains uncomplex pleasure for two. However, memory tattoos even seemingly casual sex under our skin. It will meander back through association.
The central crux of the story is reflective in its sensual unfolding: we are left with lingering consensual sexual memory.
To sum up; the story is best described as thinking erotica unfolding a deep romantic core and the better side of our human nature; though in the heat of racy randy coupling and later separation; this is the last thing on our mind and that’s okay and the story lingers repeatedly in those intense pleasurable memorable moments of life and asks the reader to do the same...our lives as genitalia.
The insight devoid of ego may come eventually.
An erotic romance novel in forty chapters

Our Lives as Genitalia: A novel with an intense beating erotic main theme.It is subtitled: Signatures from between our legs, aroused by sex, penetrated by memory, yet screwed by the mind to always confront life in the present.

The narrative begins as a series of erotic driven encounters but they all ripple back through later relationships in time, place and memory. It seems in the coupling moment that pleasure ignited by pleasures ignition remains uncomplex pleasure for two. However, memory tattoos even seemingly casual sex under our skin. It will meander back through association.

The central crux of the story is reflective in its sensual unfolding: we are left with lingering consensual sexual memory.

To sum up; the story is best described as thinking erotica unfolding a deep romantic core and the better side of our human nature; though in the heat of racy randy coupling and later separation; this is the last thing on our mind and that’s okay and the story lingers repeatedly in those intense pleasurable memorable moments of life and asks the reader to do the same...our lives as genitalia.

Luke's last day with Jenny, the myth of the perfect moment and perfect place.Recalling Coral's and Ruby's lesbian lust at the spring. Then how sexual touch sustained Luke's relationship with Jenny for as long as it lasted.

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: November 23, 2015

Reads: 189

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Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: November 23, 2015

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Chapter Twenty-Three: THE SPRING

Jenny and I had one last afternoon of self-absorbed mutual attention truly together. It was at ‘the spring’, beyond the orchard, taking me back to my childhood.

The day after her birthday dinner I took her to my favourite place: the spring. It was around the summer solstice, as if fate had decided to accompany my absolute high point with Jenny. It was the
point where I felt Jenny was actually most in my life and I was in hers. We were calm, assured, relaxed, and balanced into each other. We were building memories as shared capital. We walked through
the orchard, then down the meandering track, through the bush, to the spring. This was the fortress of my youth, bastion of me as a child and my dreams’ awakenings. Shit, this was where I
confronted youths’ dread: dying a virgin. Here I had first tried to but couldn’t comprehend maleness and femaleness, even physically. No youthful games now with Ruby and Coral. Here were two
adults, partners, hand in hand. We stopped at the physical limit—the spring—but in our minds there was no limit in the moment. We kissed; we kissed as lovers do, deep in the bush and walked
back together. The path of my childhood and my youth were now linked by association to my and hopefully Jenny’s future path.

Hand in hand, arm in arm, hug to hug at the spring, one shared kiss. We encircled each other. Jenny was in my world and it was enough; it would always have to be enough. The self I was as a child,
the selfish self I was as a youth and the man I was with Jenny and the man I would eventually be were here and Jenny gave into me what she had to give. It was a crowning moment in my life and in
memory, the point to remember Jenny as Jenny. Yet we weren’t held together in the moment by genitalia. It was touch, a hug, a kiss, and eyes to eyes. Genitals believe they are the crème de la crème
of life, touch and existence. We somehow seem, despite any evidence, to be more than the sum of our parts and the sweet life of entwined genitals always take the backseat to the meeting of two
minds. I believed we owned the same moment, yet it was to be our final time together. Well I wanted to believe this. Yet I knew then as I do now, our apogee was the weekend away at Lake Echo.

“Isn’t it a calming and beautiful place?” I reflected openly.

“It’s a place,” said Jenny.

“It’s my special place from my youth.”

Jenny looked around then said, “I think you see more than there is here… and… elsewhere.”

I looked around too, “No, it’s a great place. I’m glad I brought you here.”

“It’s nice,” she started, then added; “Surely it wasn’t perfect every single moment you’ve been here. Maybe it could have been?”

I looked around again, really reflective this time. The spring had seemed so deep as a child. A boundary to my young world. Now I realised how small it actually was. It held significance for me but
not for Jenny. Its coolness and shadows seeped through me.

“Yeah, maybe you’re right. Its how I want to see it and how I want you and us to see it now.”

“Maybe one secret here, Luke.” She was dropping small pebbles one by one into the water. The ongoing plop plop was deep.

“Maybe”, I was pricked, but it was my day—our day, I felt. I didn’t join her pebble distraction as I saw the ripples churned back into each other. I wanted calm.

I love you. I said it in my mind but didn’t repeat it out loud. Jenny was enjoying the pebbles.

Jenny was right beyond a maybe. I had seen more than I should have one afternoon at the spring. Seeking quiet calm reflection, all I witnessed from a distance was Ruby and Coral embracing.

My two youthful friends were oblivious to the world, lunching on each others’ pussies in the mutual sixty-nine. I remember it being so quiet I could hear Coral’s moan of pleasure. Another thought
crossed my mind: she hadn’t been as happy in the boathouse. Takes a girl to excite a girl. No, it is knowing where to touch. Experience, building experience, you need the experience though.

Coral, I recall as the scene unfolded, was riding Ruby who was on her hands and knees like a frickin horse. They had their riding caps on and Coral was leaving pinkish weals on Rubes cute arse with
her repeated strokes of a riding crop. What kept me hooked was the fact Ruby was actually enjoying it—I could tell by her frenzied movements and her mixed groans of delighted hurt. Coral had the
clear focus which was Coral. When she had control, she had her happiness.

Of course I knew Ruby would respond. Ruby wouldn’t be out manoeuvred easily in anything. So I recall with no surprise Ruby mounting Coral. The indelicate indecency, the incisive gamesmanship, she
was always on the brink. Her keenness and zest to push the limits unfolded before my shocked eyes. She spat on the riding crop handle and inserted it directly into Coral’s chocolate freckle. I
thought later I could have done anything with this girl in the boathouse.

Whether anyone was capable of hearing, Coral couldn’t have cared less. She was shameless, a torrent of rapturous smutty filth streamed out of her mouth, matching the wild pacing of Ruby’s probing.

The more lewd Coral’s comments got as she peaked in pleasure, the more intense and indecent was Ruby’s probing. Finally they were both lying on the grass by the spring, sated in pleasure. There was
mutual soft petting. After a while they got dressed, mounted their horses, and rode off.

Even the dry humping near the mulberry tree wasn’t a part of the quiet pure spring. Still, it was my place of reflection and as the girls dressed and rode away, it was mine alone again. Could it
hold its position as the perfect place? Should I invest meaning in what I had seen or leave it? It was Coral and Ruby’s moment, yet it was unfolded as mine too.

So Jenny was right. I wanted it perfect but it was flawed. What isn’t flawed though?

“You invest more than you should, Luke…you can want something too much.” She had lost interest in the pebbles. The spring was still.

“I know, Jenny. It’s ... I want it all…don’t you?”

She was silent for a while. “What you see is what you get. No, it’s not…I think… I wish …I don’t know either. You’re lucky to have a special place.”

“No, you’re right. I over think stuff. I want a perfect moment…a perfect place…this has most—”

Cutting in, Jenny added, “Most sounds good. Most sounds fine.”

“Most will do,” I said as we cuddled.

I like to think our minds had finally caught up with our bodies. Sex leads but the mind will ultimately define the direction.

Whether we held each other’s thoughts or they were trickling away with the spring, it doesn’t matter now. Most of Jenny through our time together was going to have to be how I remembered her. We
kissed, hugged steadily, as one. We held hands all the way back to her car. I kissed her on the cheek and Jenny drove away.

For a long time I thought it was Jenny’s body I had lost. However, it was the special place lovers hold in the thoughts of the beloved. Bodies held together in coupling, yet bodies really only held
together by two separate sets of thoughts. Decisively paired thoughts in key immediate moments; yet even at points of closeness; our thoughts of a lover are shaped tenuously fluidly even in their
seeming certainty because everything between two close beings takes on definition from an individual perspective. We are together ignoring the impasse of never truly being in another’s mind.

There was only her voice on the phone and a closing note with her essential self, to come. It was always with Jenny to hold the moment and keep moving too. Jenny had a post graduation trip planned
with a female relative prior to our first dance. This was all in place weeks before Jenny and I had met. I had known about its looming presence for a fair while, nothing of concern here though, so
forget all the foreknowledge because all was solid. There was absolutely nothing to indicate I couldn’t continue to hold the space in Jenny’s life. I had been stealing togetherness from time
successfully for months now. Jenny had steadied, I had moderated her, she was still widespread to life and the sex was still very good and sticking more than bodies together; though our coupling
had a pattern of familiarity to it, a pleasant relaxed pattern, and a full ingredient in the rhythm of our lives. Days spent together.

I was confident unaccompanied and secure in waiting for her return. I didn’t actually feel alone, though physically I was. It was like I belonged and even though we were apart, Jenny was with me.
The vital Jenny, the Jenny who shared of herself beyond her genitalia was with me in spirit. Though as time passed and became weeks and no messages, I was left wondering, what? And came back to the
word. The word of expressed relationships, the potent sustaining word, the fluid word driving a relationship, the word steadily checking all is well. And here memory holds the truer course, than
the mind on the page, which appears straight as lines of text, but is devious. I said, ‘I love you, Jenny’ and got it back, plus ‘You bugger’. However, I used the word ‘love’ once before with
Jenny. On our first night together in the darkening room before genitals met. I said, “I want to make love to you.”

There was either an affirmative response or her partially naked body was quickly fully naked and responding; all lights go. Now this use of the word love wasn’t the same. It didn’t have the
spiritual weight of the later statement, an expression of inner self requesting feedback from another’s inner self. ‘I want to make love to you’ is a polite way of requesting sex, nothing more. Yet
equally, I didn’t use the phrase again when seeking and sharing Jenny’s body. It was like after ‘you bugger’ the love word was taboo, yet I could have used it as in ‘I want to make love to
you’ to build my feelings of love into our connection.

Equally, it made me think. What words did we use together to initiate consensual sex after our first night? It struck me there was a genuine absence of words; it was touch, fingers tracing and
tactile genitals snogging together. We were both caught in the speed with which youth divests its self of clothing, all the heady unspoken signals and the sheer urgency of bodies. Though Jenny and
I had touched many times already, it was still like we hadn’t touched before. We seek, seek, and find; we wrap and flow and glow. The energy of human connection together without words: an unspoken
revelry for two of carnal genital delight and tacit feelings. But was the depth of feeling ever equal? We never know. We may estimate. And sometimes I suspected they hadn’t been but I held the
immediate given without words because this Jenny could always give unequivocally.